


This Little Jew Went to Market

by TwinIvoryElephants



Category: Jojo Rabbit (2019)
Genre: Antisemitism, Implied/Referenced Mentions of Euthanasia, Implied/Referenced Mentions of Wartime Rape, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nazi Germany, Period-Typical Ableism, Period-Typical Racism, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinIvoryElephants/pseuds/TwinIvoryElephants
Summary: The war has ended; Jojo and Elsa are free to go to the market together. Elsa is nervous about going out into public again, and her fears are validated when Jojo suddenly goes missing.
Relationships: Jojo Betzler & Elsa Korr
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	This Little Jew Went to Market

They departed the house when birds were chirping and the sky was still gray. Jojo told her that it was best to go early. “Then, you can get the cream of the crop,” he explained in his know-it-all way. “Plus, sometimes the sellers are sleepy, so they’re not as strict about making sure you pay the right amount.” He paused, then added, guiltily, “I don’t cheat, though.” 

Elsa listened with an air of amusement as she spooned watery soup into her mouth. Jojo wasn’t the best cook, but he insisted on trying. Soup made the scant vegetables and herbs he’d scrounged up from the pantry seem like a proper meal, though only marginally so. Elsa didn’t mind. They had dry chunks of bread to mop up the soup, and that eased some of her stomach’s emptiness. Wasn’t that all she could ask for?

Jojo, though, clearly seemed unhappy about his lackluster cooking skill. “Mama used to make the best soup,” he said wistfully.

His eyes started to glimmer, and Elsa could see his lip begin to tremble. Quickly, she said, “When we go to the market, we’ll buy lots of vegetables and meat and bread. We’ll buy everything we need...and we’ll get _pfeffernüsse_.” Elsa knew Jojo had a soft spot for the tiny spice cookies. Now that the war was over, desserts were no longer a far-away luxury, she thought.

But Jojo only gave a shrug. “No _pfeffernüsse_ ,” he said sadly. “I went to the market the other day and asked around, but no one was making them.” He didn’t mention that the best baker in town had been killed accidentally when a few rowdy Americans got drunk and began shooting their guns at cans in the town square. A shot had gone awry, and now the bakery was being closed down. 

Once they’d finished breakfast (Jojo had insisted on clearing and washing the dishes by himself), they emerged from the house into the chilly gray morning. Elsa relished the fresh air on her skin, the wind in her hair. She even appreciated the way her eyes began to water if she looked at the weak sun too long. She’d been deprived of so much for so long, it almost made her want to cry. Sometimes, alone in Rosie’s soft, foreign bed, she did. 

But Elsa didn’t this time. She walked beside Jojo and kept her head high, trying not to flinch at the loud noise of people opening their doors to greet the new morning. She’d heard the muffled noise of the bombing from inside Inge’s wall, but this was different. These everyday noises were close and clear. Even though Elsa knew she was free, her body struggled to understand; her arms prickled with goosebumps, her legs urged her to run at the sound of gunshots near or far away, she instinctively avoided the gaze of any man in uniform, whether American or Russian. She kept Jojo always in her sight, knowing that his neighbors would recognize his blond hair and blue eyes and thus be more likely to overlook her presence. 

_This little piggy went to market,_ she thought randomly. How long had it been since she thought of that childhood rhyme? _This little Jew went to market,_ she corrected herself, and almost giggled, more due to nerves than anything.

Elsa found herself looking for the Magen David on people’s chests almost on instinct, but she saw none. This saddened her until Jojo reminded her that Jews weren’t required to wear “those stars” anymore. Still, she saw no one she formerly knew, no one from the poor ghetto she and her family had called home when she was a child.

“There are rumors,” said Jojo tentatively when she expressed this to him, “that all the Jews went to Madagascar. Maybe we can go there before we go to France, and find some of them.”

“Oh,” Elsa said, feeling bewildered. “Maybe.”

The market was nearly empty save for a few vendors setting up their stalls. Jojo began talking animatedly with a fruit seller as he fondled his wares—apples and melons and oranges so big and juicy that they made Elsa’s mouth water. She stayed behind, self-conscious. This was Jojo’s world. Any vendor, no matter how friendly they looked, no matter how sweetly they inquired about Jojo’s health, would undoubtedly not do the same to Elsa if they knew her background. The idea only tasted slightly bitter in her mouth; she was used to it.

She wandered over to an elderly woman selling onions and lettuce. “I got some left over from my garden,” the woman said, smiling. She was missing some teeth, but her eyes were kind. “Figured I’d sell them. God knows I could use the extra money.”

Elsa nodded, unsure of how to respond. She picked up an onion and looked at it. Her mouth began to water again. 

“Interested?” the woman asked.

Elsa looked over at Jojo, still chatting with the fruit vendor. He had given her some _Reichspfennig_ from the jar in Rosie’s pantry, but it wasn’t that much. “How much for three onions and two heads of lettuce?” she asked, trying not to sound as timid as she felt.

The woman’s eyes glinted as she told her. Elsa bit her lip as she looked down at her money, then back at the woman. 

“Don’t try to Jew me down, now,” the woman said with a chuckle. She gestured to her wares with one veiny hand. “I spent a long time growing these. They’re worth the marks.”

Elsa straightened her spine. “Sorry to waste your time,” she said stiffly, putting the onion back. She avoided the woman’s eyes. “I should go meet my brother now.”

She hurried off, face reddening. When she went to the fruit seller, though, she didn’t see Jojo. “Excuse me,” she asked the man, bucking up her courage. “Did you see where that little scarred boy went?” She felt a bit guilty trying identifying Jojo by his disfigurement, but it was true that it was his most memorable feature.

The man looked at Elsa dispassionately. “Little Jojo Betzler?” he replied. “I just saw him, but he didn’t tell me where he was going.”

Elsa turned to walk away, scanning the square. Fear was beginning to worm slowly but surely into her heart. She didn’t see him anywhere. The day had truly begun, and the square was beginning to bustle with activity. Mothers and children walked hand in hand, passing men young and old as they opened their shops and began advertising their produce.

There was a group of soldiers haggling with a man selling beer. Elsa picked up her pace once in their vicinity, only looking at them briefly so she could see if Jojo was with them. Her shoulders hunched when one of them whistled at her. Another shouted something in English that she was glad she couldn’t understand.

 _Schmutsik goyim zelner,_ she thought venomously. _Filthy gentile soldiers._ She longed to shout at them, but throughout the years Elsa had learned that men in uniform liked hurting girls and women, and gentile men liked hurting Jewish girls the most. It would be better not to engage them.

It was only moments afterward, when the soldiers were out of hearing range, that she realized that some of them might be Jews; America and Russia had no laws prohibiting the idea of a Jewish soldier. 

Fifteen minutes of fruitless searching later, Elsa was beginning to panic. The square was beginning to get truly busy, and Jojo was nowhere in sight. She talked briefly with a few other vendors, even a few shopkeepers sweeping out front, but none of them had seen the boy. She had only a few pennies, not even a true mark, in the pocket of her pants; it was Jojo that had all the money. Could he have gotten jumped by some soldiers, had his money stolen? What if he was hurt somewhere?

“Haah!” came a shout from behind her.

Elsa cried out and whirled around. It was Jojo, grinning mischievously. In his hand he held a basket, now full of apples, oranges, and plump green grapes. Under his other arm he held a loaf of white bread wrapped tight in a handkerchief.

Elsa felt a wave of relief wash over her, followed quickly by anger. She tried to cuff him on the side of the head, but he ducked, grinning. “Jojo!” she exclaimed. “Where were you? I was so worried!”

“I wanted to scare you, so I hid,” he said, giggling. “The look on your face!”

“It’s not funny,” Elsa insisted, coloring. “Jojo, I was really scared.” Despite her anger, she couldn’t help but note how flushed and happy Jojo looked; much different from the businesslike little Nazi youth she’d first met. She hadn’t seen him like this since they found out about Rosie, when his childish whimsy was replaced by grief-stricken sobriety. It was good to see, Elsa thought. It meant that maybe he was healing. 

Look what I got!” Jojo enthused, holding out the bread loaf and his full basket. “It’s wonderful to not use ration cards anymore. We can get as much as we can pay for!”

“Yes, wonderful,” Elsa replied. She pulled her coat tighter around her, though the sun was breaking through the clouds. 

Jojo looked at her, concerned. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he admitted. “Not really. I just thought it’d be a fun joke to play. I do it all the time with Yorki.”

Elsa shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said. They began to walk again, side by side. Elsa offered to carry the bread loaf, and Jojo obliged, sliding it into her arms. “I’m not in a joking mood,” she admitted after a minute, gazing at the people bustling around and buying groceries. “Especially with these soldiers around,” she added in a lower voice.

Jojo wrinkled his brow. “They’re not Nazis, though.”

When Elsa looked at him, she realized again just how young he was. “It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “I’m just not used to them, yet.”

“I don’t like the soldiers, either,” Jojo said matter-of-factly. “You should be careful around them. Aische Wolff was in the League of German Girls, and she was ravished by one of them, I heard. People say it was an American.”

Elsa looked at him, surprised.

“What?” Jojo said.

“Do you know what ‘ravished’ means?”

Jojo gave an ambiguous shrug.

Elsa frowned. “You’re too young to know about that sort of thing,” she said, shaking her head.

They walked for a little bit in silence. Jojo’s brow was furrowed, deep in thought. “Poor Aische,” he said quietly. “I saw her the other day with her mother. She looked like a scared rabbit.”

Elsa didn’t want to feel pity for another Nazi youth. One was enough. In her opinion, any Nazi girl impregnated by an enemy soldier couldn’t hold a candle to the number of Jewish girls who’d suffered the same.

They walked, eyeing the vendors mildly. “Look, there’s Frau Wagner,” Jojo said, pointing to a mousy woman wearing a drab gray dress. She was sitting on a wooden stool beside a table lined with triangles of fabric. “Her husband worked with Father in a factory before they were both sent off to fight. She knits handkerchiefs and scarves and sells them.” Jojo looked at Elsa with bright eyes. “Maybe we can get you something.”

Elsa felt a lump in her throat. She hadn’t worn anything pretty, anything that was firmly her own, in what seemed like forever. “Okay,” she said, and Jojo dragged her by the hand.

When they returned home, they both put groceries away. Jojo put food away in the icebox, and Elsa put food away in the pantry. She wore her new handkerchief, which was a beautiful white color criss-crossed with blue stitching. She wore it on her head. When she looked in the mirror of the Betzlers’ bathroom, it amused and saddened her to realize that she looked like her grandmother, who wore her _tichel_ right up until her dying day.

“You look pretty,” Jojo said shyly. “The blue part brings out your eyes.”

Elsa turned around, startled. He was standing in the doorway, cheeks pink. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’m going to go make lunch,” Jojo said quickly, to stave off the awkwardness. “Do you want anything?”

“I’ll make my own,” Elsa said.

They spread butter and jam on slices of the fresh bread, speared them on fancy long forks they found in one of the kitchen cabinets, and stuck the forks over the small, smoky fire Jojo painstakingly coaxed to life. Sitting in front of the fireplace, Elsa felt cozy. When her bread was toasted brown, she withdrew her fork and blew on it. Jojo was already cooling his and looking at her speculatively. 

“What?” she asked him, taking a tentative bite of her toast. Crumbs scattered to the rug; she made a mental note to clean those up once they finished eating. The toast was crispy and hot; the sweet tang of the jam blended smoothly with the savory butter. Elsa closed her eyes, savoring the taste.

“I was just thinking,” Jojo answered between bites of his own toast.

“About what?”

“Inge. You knew her before she got ill.”

It wasn’t a question. Elsa hesitated only a little. “Yes,” she replied. “I did.” She studied her skewer of toast and tried to not to think of those long ago memories of two little girls with brown hair, before the harsh poverty of the ghetto or the Magen David was unceremoniously pinned to her small breast. She’d left Inge behind just like all the others she’d lost, but that didn’t stop her childhood friend from trying to crawl back into her memory. “We were schoolmates, before Jews had to live in different places.” 

“You played the violin together,” Jojo said slowly. “I remember—Inge wouldn’t let me touch her bow. You laughed at me.”

“That was before.” Elsa remembered Inge as a very young child, not as the adolescent girl she was upon her death. She remembered her as gentle but bossy, a budding violinist whose fat childish fingers clutched the bow determinedly. She was delicate. Sickly. Not fit for the ideology her little brother would grow up entrenched in.

“You know,” she told Jojo haltingly, “when...when your mother took me in, she told me about why she was doing this—why she was in the resistance.”

Something seemed to click in Jojo’s mind. He looked at Elsa with sudden realization mired in heartbreak. “Inge,” he said. 

Elsa nodded. “The Nazis would have gotten her if her illness hadn’t,” she said. “Rosie was distraught when she found out how Hitler felt about the sick. How they weren’t fit to live.” Her voice was growing tight and bitter with every word.

Jojo looked into the fire glowing softly in the fireplace. “I didn’t think,” he admitted. “I mean, I didn’t think Inge would be...she could walk and talk and she was smart. When Frau Rahm told us about it, she told us it was a good thing because people who couldn’t walk or were mental defectives didn’t deserve to live in such a harsh world made for the strong. She said it would be a mercy.”

Elsa remembered a boy in the ghetto. His name was Hans Müller, and he rocked endlessly and made noises instead of talked. He stayed home in his cramped apartment with the Leibowitzes and the Bäumers instead of going to the equally cramped shack next door, where Elsa and the other young school-age children would have the Torah quietly read to them by a nervous rabbi Elsa couldn’t remember the name of. Hans’ mother screamed and wept when the Nazis inspected their cramped apartment and discovered his retardation. He was a strong boy, and struggled valiantly, but they beat him with the butt of their guns and carried his unconscious body away. Her mother had made her come away from the window and hugged her tight, but Elsa remembered how limp he looked. How helpless.

“‘Despise no one and call nothing useless for there is no person who does not have his hour—and no thing that does not have its place,’” she quoted, feeling morose.

“What’s that?” asked Jojo.

“It’s from the _Mishnah."_

Jojo looked confused.

"From the Torah."

Jojo nodded and said, "Ah."

"It just means that everyone has their place in the world," Elsa said. "Even mental defectives.” _Like Hans,_ she thought.

“Even Inge,” added Jojo, sounding melancholy.

“Even Inge,” Elsa agreed, and took her last bite of toast.


End file.
